Ducks of a Feather Flock Together
by Takara Matsudaira
Summary: { H I A T U S ! } Don Tibbles, Senior VP of Hendrix Hockey Apparel, recruits two girls for Team USA instead of one. Chloe Blake Winslow, is my name; call me Blake. (Not sure about pairings at the moment, I guess it just all depends on what my readers want!) First person POV. { H I A T U S ! }
1. Chapter 1: I Quit

**Dedications** This story was inspired by Blu Jitsu's _Mighty Ducks _story, _D25: The Mighty Vikings_.

**A/N **Hiya, readers! I'd like to welcome you all to my first ever _Mighty Ducks _story! I'm a little bit rusty when it comes to these beloved characters of ours, but I'll try to keep them in character as best I know how. Please let me know if they ever seem OOC (out of character) to you because I really want them to be believable.

**Disclaimer **_The __Mighty Ducks _(c) Disney. Chloe Blake Winslow (c) Takara "Taka" Matsudaira.

* * *

><p>Ducks of a Feather Flock Together<p>

Chapter One

I knock on the door to the coach's office, but I don't wait for a formal invitation to enter; I just walk right on in like I own the place. I have my duffle bag over my shoulder in one hand, and my hockey stick in the other. It's my hockey stick that I place on his desk. "Well Coach, I guess you get what you want; I quit." I leave the room without another word. And without my beloved hockey stick.

"Who was that?" I hear someone ask. I guess I had interrupted a very important meeting. But I didn't care. It's not like Coach Jenkins ever cared about me, so why should I care about him?

But it was what he had said next that really hurt. "Nobody; she's nobody."

He's lucky that I have a lot of self-control. Because there's nothing in the world that I want more right now than to punch his lights out.

"Just you watch, Coach; I'll become a somebody someday, and then you'll have to acknowledge me," I say more so for my benefit and confidence than for anyone else's. It's times like these that either make or break you.

I'm halfway down the hallway by the time when very distinct sound of heavy footsteps catches my attention and I turn around. I see the very same man from Coach's office coming my way; he's apparently out of breath by the time he gets to me, because he actually has to lean on my shoulder for support before he can say anything that remotely resembles the English language.

"What's up?" I ask bluntly, looking him up and down. He doesn't look like the men that Coach Jenkins is usually seen with, either talking to or heard yelling at. He has that goofy quality about him. "Who are you?"

He's now doubled over, gasping for air. What's wrong with this man? Hasn't he ever ran before? Apparently not, looking at him now. "My name... is Don... Don Tibbles," he introduces himself to me, having finally gotten his breathing under control. Or at least enough to explain himself to me.

"Don Tibbles?" I question, quirking an eyebrow at the funny last name. "You don't look like someone the Anchorage Snow Leopards Coach would associate with. What business do you have here in Anchorage, Alaska?"

That's when he smiles. Like, really smiles. And it's really freaking me out. "I'm the Senior VP of Hendrix Hockey Apparel, and the Scouting Manager. We're the official sponsor for Team USA, and I want you to be apart of that team."

Now he definitely has my full attention. "Me? But why me? You don't know anything about me. And I don't play hockey anymore in case you didn't just see me quite back there." I jerk a thumb in the direction of Coach Jenkins' office. "And nothing you say can make me change my mind either."

He places a hand on my shoulder. I meet his eyes. "You're name is Chloe Blake Winslow; you go by your middle name so people automatically assume you're a guy because of it. You're #92 and a forward for the Anchorage Snow Leopards, whom don't treat you like one of their own, hence the hostility between you and Coach Jenkins, because you're a girl playing her favorite sport.

"You were born in Hilo, Hawaii, but are a military brat at heart and was stationed in various parts of the world because your father's currently in the military as a Colonel in the United States Air Force. In fact, it was him who had taught you how to play hockey, if I'm correct; and I do believe that I am."

I can't help it; I stare. I'm speechless, totally speechless. I didn't think anyone knew what he did. To tell you the truth, it's freaking me out actually, how much he knows about me when I don't know anything about him; this man, who I just happened to have bumped into. What is he? A stalker? Somehow, something tells me he's not done.

He continues without so much as missing a single beat, almost like he's reading my life's story from a book. "You know nothing of your mother because she died when you were born, my condolences." He looks at me not with pity, but with something else. Something that I can't quite put my finger on. "But that's why you live with your hockey-loving grandparents and four older brothers; each having his own favorite sport that he plays, although three are already in the military, serving their country with pride.

"Each of them were named after famous hockey players; your father actually being named after the great Wayne Gretzky himself, Wayne Winslow. Then there's Bobby, the oldest out of your four brothers, named after Bobby Hull; Michael, the second oldest, named after Michael Dean Bossy; Patrick, the third oldest, named after Patrick Jacques Roy; and finally there's the fourth and last brother, Max Winslow, named after Max Bentley.

"And you; you were named after your beautiful mother, Chloe Winslow."

I raise an eyebrow at this. Who is he to talk about my mom? "Look, I don't know who you are, but you certainly know a lot about me. And I find that creepy. So I'm gonna go call the police now if you don't mind," I say, removing his hand from my shoulder as I start to walk away from him, slowly and backwards, making my way to the closest phone that I know of.

I literally take off down the hallway in a sprint. I look frantically for a phone in the lobby when my eyes fall on an unused one in the far corner, closest to the door.

Dialing 911 for the police, my eyes scan anyone and everyone that enters the lobby in fear of Don Tibbles' presence. It's scary how much he knows about me. And that's putting my fear of said man's knowledge of me mildly.

I put my arm up on the ledge of the pay phone in anticipation. "C'mon, pick up, pick up," I keep repeating over and over again. My back automatically turns away from the hallway for a little bit of privacy when they finally pick up on the third ring. "Yes, my name's Blake, and I'd like to report a stalker. His name? It's Don Tib—" The phone is suddenly yanked out of my grasp by the very same man I'm trying to avoid by all means necessary. But I don't seem to be doing a very good job at it.

We wrestle for the phone until it's Mr. Stalker-Man that wins, and reassures the police that there's nothing wrong and it was all just a misunderstanding.

As if.

Mr. Stalker-Man totally lucked out in the lobby because there's just us. So he doesn't have to worry about getting arrested if I decide to yell for help. I'm actually surprised that I haven't yet. What the heck is wrong with me?

I yell. Or at least start to anyway before he stops me by placing both his hands over my mouth, and shushes me so that he can explain.

Didn't he already tried to do that? That's why we're in this mess to begin with, isn't it?

"I promise you, I'm not a stalker. I'm a family friend. I knew your mom. We were high school sweethearts. She was the only woman I ever really, truly loved. She saw me for me. We've kept in touch," he explains this all in one big, long breath and quite quickly too, whilst trying to make our conversation look as natural as he possibly can with both his hands covering my mouth to keep me from talking. It isn't working. People stare at us as they walk in and out of the building, not really sure what to make of the situation obviously. "I really am the Senior VP of Hendrix Hockey Apparel, whose proud to be the official sponsor for Team USA."

I finally yank his hands away from my mouth so that I can get my two cents in before I really do yell for help or go crazy, whichever one comes first. He stumbles back a bit at the unexpected force. I know I should feel bad about making him trip, but I don't. "That still doesn't explain why you want me to play for Team USA. It's like I already said, I quite playing hockey."

"And I'd like to say, no, you haven't," he outright says. He plops himself down on a nearby plush sofa chair, and motioning me to do the same. But I don't and instead I lean against the closest wall that I can find. He sighs. "I've seen you play with the Anchorage Snow Leopards. You're good, really good. Look, I'll be honest with you, Blake, Hendrix Hockey Apparel didn't even knew you existed, that is until I told them about you and your skills for the game, your passion.

"As soon as they saw your skills and love for the game, they all immediately agreed that you'd be a great addition to Team USA; it was an unanimous decision. They literally fell head over heals for you. You even have a few Hendrix Hockey fans now. Please don't make me disappoint them by telling them that you don't want to be apart of Team USA."

I look at him inquisitively about having fans at Hendrix. Yeah, right. Whatever. "Fans? What fans?"

"Me, for starters. Also the President of Hendrix Hockey Apparel himself and a few others here and there in the department downstairs."

"The President of Hendrix Hockey is a fan of mine?" I ask disbelievingly. As if someone as important as a president for a super, duper big and important company like Hendrix would be a fan of mine. "Yeah, right. I don't believe you."

"If I can get him on the phone and have him confirm that he is a fan of yours, then will you join Team USA?" Mr. Stalker-Man asks. I'm still not all that sure that he is who he says he is. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. I don't know.

I shrug with a tilt of the head, but only slightly, still unsure about this whole thing. How did I know that I'd meet up with the Senior VP of Hendrix Hockey Apparel today after quitting the Anchorage Snow Leopards? Not me. That's for sure. If he says who he is, that is. I'm still not even sure myself. And I'm a pretty darn good judge of character and can certainly tell when someone is lying; so far though, he seems pretty truthful. No one can act that confidently, and goofy for that matter, when lying, especially to my face. It just couldn't be done. Period.

He jumps up all of the sudden from his chair, startling me half to death. I'm not used to all of this enthusiasm. It's just not me and if anything I don't like it. He's too perky for my taste. But that's just me. I can tell why my mom loved him, if what he says about them being high school sweethearts is true anyway.

I just don't know what to think about Mr. Stalker-Man. And that's definitely saying something when not even _I_ don't know.

I'm confused. And concerned that all of this could be a trap to get me to come with him, and into his car, to never to be seen or heard from again. Call me paranoid, I don't care what you think. My brothers taught me to always be on the lookout for weirdos, like this man. But Mr. Stalker-Man is actually more of a lovable weirdo now that I think about it. How could anyone hate him? He's goofy, probably too goofy for his own good.

"Great! Just let me get him on the phone for ya; just give me five, and I'll guarantee ya that you'll be saying yes in no time!" He makes a beeline straight for the very same exact pay phone that I had tried calling the police on from earlier.

_Forget Hendrix Hockey. Mr. Stalker-Man here_,_ should be writing for Dr. Seuss; he just rhymed, and I don't even think he realizes it_, I think, chuckling to myself.

"Yes, sir; I understand completely, sir," he says, a little flustered. I can tell that he feels really, really bad about something, but I don't know what it is because I can't hear the other end of the conversation. "Yes, I do realize that you're in a meeting—" (—that explains it—) "—but if you could maybe just — _Sir_! Yes, I know that I raised my voice and I am truly sorry about that; but I'm here with Ms. Blake; you know, the player that I told you about?"

I have to give Mr. Stalker-Man props; he's yelling at his boss, and knowing full well that he could possibly get fired for it, too.

I see that he holds his breath in anticipation, but then he visibly relaxes after a few minutes of what I can only assume was silence.

"Yes, sir; thank you, sir. You won't regret it, I promise." He shouldn't make promises that he can't keep. I learned that the hard way. He then turns to me, motioning for me to come obviously, but I'm adamant at first before I soon find that my feet have a mind of their own. He places the phone in my hand. "There's someone that wants to speak to you, Ms. Blake; I'd advise you not to hold him up. He's a very busy man, with very little time."

He walks away, I watch him go in silence before placing the phone slowly over my ear, not totally positive of what it is that I'm supposed to be doing. If only my brothers were here...

All of my confidence is suddenly gone when I feel the cold metal of the pay phone pressed up against my ear. I only start by saying unsurely, "Uh... H-hello, Mr. P-President, sir?" I want to slap myself silly right then and there for stuttering before someone answers.

"_Hello, Ms. Blake." _It's a man's voice; and a scary deep one at that, too. Awesome (note the sarcasm)._ "My name's Zimmermann. Just Zimmermann. But you can call me, Mr. Zimmermann, if it's all the same to you. I'm the President of Hendrix Hockey Apparel."_

There's something in his voice... And that something tells me that this is no joke. That it's anything but.

* * *

><p><strong>AN **Who else thought it was funny when my character tried to call the police on Don because she thought that he was a stalker? I did, no lie; I still do, actually... ;D When writing this, I had wanted to give him some background story because we hardly know anything about him, other than him being the Senior VP of Hendrix Hockey Apparel, but other than that that's it; that's all we know about him. Sad, really. He's a lovable character, sometimes annoying, but always right there for our beloved Ducks!

Reviews are much obliged! Flames'll be burnt to a crisp. ^_^


	2. Chapter 2: Minnesota, Here I Come!

**A/N **Still don't know how I feel about this chapter, took forever to write, rewrite, and then some. So please tell me what you guys think of it. I don't care if you review, telling me if you like it or don't, or if you PM me. Any feedback helps!

**Disclaimer** _The Mighty Ducks _(c) Disney. Chloe Blake Winslow (c) Takara "Taka" Matsudaira.

* * *

><p>Ducks of a Feather Flock Together<p>

Chapter Two

Taking out my comb and brush out of my carry-on bag, I place the brush down on the counter of the sink before starting from the bottom and working my way up my long, wild, dark brown hair. It's messed up from taking a nap earlier, so much so that it takes a few tries for my comb to make any sort of progress. My hair's so bad that it's even safe to say that I have "sex hair." Whatever that means. Actually, I know what it means, I just don't want to think about it.

Now I'm usually not one for caring about her appearance, but I hate it when my hair's a rat's nest. It drives me crazy, and I don't know why, but I can't stand it. As my brush continues its magic, I take a moment to examine my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I don't look anything like my dad, or that of my four older brothers, all of whom have blonde hair and blue eyes, like my dad. Of course, I've got blue eyes, but that's where the similarities end.

"_Are you an Eskimo?"_

Most people would call me an "eskimo"—which is actually a very highly offensive term in our culture, and especially amongst the Iñupiat (or "Inuit") people of Alaska. I don't know why it is, but it is and I don't question it. It's always been like that for as long as I can remember, and I have a very good memory. Trust me on that—because of my looks.

Dark brown skin. Black, but not quite black. I'm somewhere in the middle. My mom's an Inuit, but my dad's caucasian; white. Dark brown hair. My hair's thick and long, wild, hangs in a loose ponytail half the time when it's not in a braid during a hockey game. And my gorgeous, so called, blue eyes. (**A/N **Think of Katara from Nickelodeon's hit TV show, _Avatar: The Last Airbender_, and you'll have a pretty good idea of what she looks like.)

Sounds Inuit enough, right?

Wrong!

It's exactly these very same blue eyes that throw people for a loop, which is why they always ask me if I'm an actual Inuit. The Inuit people don't have blue eyes, they have brown eyes, not blue. Never blue. Ever. Period. It's just unheard of!

"There. Finally," I say, sighing as I place both my comb and brush back into my carry-on bag. Looking over my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I run my fingers through my hair a few times, satisfied. "Yup. Much better." Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I make my way out of the bathroom and back to my seat.

Mr. Tibbles is actually asleep for a change, instead of rambling on about who knows what, by the time I finally make it back to my seat. He stirs when I sit down in the chair next to his, but doesn't wake. Good. Peace and quiet for once. Something I can actually enjoy. I place my carry-on bag back under my seat, but not before taking out my little black sketch book so that I can draw, passing the time.

We're on a plane right now, heading to Minneapolis, Minnesota, where I'll be meeting the former peewee hockey coach and minor league player, Gordon Bombay, and his ragtag team of "Mighty Ducks." I'll be honest with you, I'm a little apprehensive when it comes to meeting new people. Never have been a social butterfly. And probably never will be.

I'll be the first, out of six, to arrive in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Us, recruits, will be staying in the same hotel together, which only makes sense. I'll be rooming with the only other female recruit, Julie Gaffney, from Bangor, Maine. Hm, haven't been there in awhile.

I'm actually happy that I'll be the first to arrive, gives me more time to myself before everyone else does. Because when you're on a team, especially on a hockey team, it's hard to find just time to yourself. Alone time.

Mr. Senior-VP-of-Hendrix-Hockey-Apparel over there, to my right, convinced me to leave early for Minnesota because of a big storm that'll supposedly roll in tomorrow night, which will more than likely ground all flights in and out of Alaska, if it actually comes that is. But I have no doubt that it will; it always does. That's why I'm on a plane today instead of tomorrow, on my way to Minneapolis, Minnesota, with none other than Mr. Stalker-Man himself. Who would've thunk it? And to think I only just met the man yesterday.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. "Here. Thought you might like to have it." He hands me a black-and-white picture of three happy-looking people. I take it uncertainly and study it, quirking an eyebrow in confusion.

"What's this? Who're these people?" I try handing it back to him, but he doesn't accept it. And instead, he points to each person he describes.

He points to the woman in the picture.

She's propped up in a hospital bed, wearing one of those ugly hospital gowns, and holding a newborn baby girl in her arms, whose asleep in a baby blanket. She looks tired, her long, dark brown hair's messy, but she's all smiles anyway. She also has the same blue eyes as me. No; it couldn't be, could it?

"That's her. Your mom."

_No way._

Next is the man beside the woman. He's smiling, too, with his arm over the woman's shoulders in a loving manner. His clothes are disheveled. He's tired, sure, but at least he doesn't look like he might collapse at any given minute.

"And that's me. I was there the day you were born."

_Huh?!_

You'd think someone would've told me this, but again, no one tells me anything anymore! I don't know what I should be feeling right now, but what I do know is that I'm confused. Yup. Definitely confused. And that's putting all of this mildly. Now do you understand why I call him "Mr. Stalker-Man?"

But only one question comes to mind. "Where was my dad when this picture was taken?" I ask the burning question at the forefront of my mind.

Mr. Tibbles rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, looking away before looking back at me uncertainly. "I think...you should ask your dad that question."

I look at him, then back at the black-and-white picture in my hand. My thumb rubs up and down the woman in the hospital gown. He says she's my mom, but eh...I don't know why, something tells me there's more to the story than what meets the eye. But again, it doesn't look like anyone is going to tell me anything.

The ding of the intercom system sounds, stopping everyone on the plane in their tracks. "This is your Captain speaking, we will be landing in Minneapolis, Minnesota shortly. Please put your trays in their upright positions and buckle up, as we will be landing soon. Thank you." It dings once more before going completely silent.

We all do as he says, everyone, including myself and Mr. Stalker-Man, also place our carry-on bags and whatnot under our seats as well, even though he said nothing about what to do with our belongings. The flight attendants help a few or so of the more shorter passengers by placing their belongings in the overhead compartments before sitting down themselves.

Before I know it, we're landing in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

* * *

><p><strong>AN **Not as long as the first chapter, but I hope you liked it anyway! Thanks for the shout-out, Blu Jitsu! :) That really made my day/week! Trust me on that, it did.

Reviews are much obliged! Flames'll be burnt to a crisp. ^_^


	3. Chapter 3: Air Sick

**Disclaimer **_The Mighty Ducks _(c) Disney. Chloe Blake Winslow (c) Takara "Taka" Matsudaira.

* * *

><p>Ducks of a Feather Flock Together<p>

Chapter Three

The Captain's voice comes over the intercom system again. "Welcome to Minneapolis, Minnesota. You're now free to move about the cabin." The intercom system dings again, signaling the end of the flight.

We all unbuckle ourselves and start to get our belongings out from the overhead compartments. Well, almost everyone, that is. Mr. Tibbles is too busy breathing in and out of a brown paper bag. Hyperventilating is more like it. He's unnaturally pale. "I hate flying."

I watch with disgust, cringing whenever he throws up. "The landing wasn't _that_ bumpy." I've never been good with this type of thing, comforting people I mean, never really my strong suite.

"Doesn't matter," he says, looking rather ill before going back to throwing up in the brown paper bag. "Still hate to fly."

"How in the world of hockey did you get a job that requires you to fly around the country and back again then?" I can't help but ask.

He throws up some more before he finally gets a chance to answer. "They never asked me if I got air sick. They only asked me if I was afraid of heights." That explains a lot.

I sigh, shaking my head at the man.

A flight attendant comes to my rescue, helping me escort the pale Mr. Tibbles from the plane, when she sees that I'm having just a little bit of trouble carrying his weight, along with mine and Mr. Tibbles' bags.

We finally make it off of the plane, but Mr. Stalker-Man is so ill that he doesn't even realize that he accidentally shakes my hand, thanking me for helping him, and then slings his arm over the flight attendant's shoulders, walking away with her instead of me.

"Air sick?" asks the woman behind the desk when she sees him walking away, without me but with the flight attendant instead.

I nod. "Air sick."

"Good luck with that," she calls out to me, all giggles.

I roll my eyes at her before turning my back to her as I start running in order to catch up to Mr. Stalker-Man. Great; just my luck. Now I have random people in the airport laughing at us. I don't need this, but what else am I to do? I guess I could always visit Patrick and Hercules, down at station Engine "Avalanche Mountain" 61. Patrick is my third oldest big bro and Hercules is the station's big, but very friendly pitbull. I haven't seen those two in ages; I miss them. Terribly.

I can't help but laugh when I finally catch up to the ill Mr. Tibbles and the poor confused flight attendant. She's trying to tell him that she's not me, but Mr. Tibbles is not listening. He's probably just talking Mr. Tibbles' gibberish, which is actually all but just nonsense to the flight attendant anyway.

Laughing, I startle them accidentally, as I come up from behind them. "Leave the poor woman alone, Mr. Stalker-Man." Her eyes widen at my use of said man's nickname, but I reassure her that it's only a term of endearment. I think so, anyway, but I wasn't about to tell her that. That's the last thing she needs right now. "She's got a plane to catch." I pry his arm off from around her shoulders long enough for her to escape. And so she does, thanking me with a smile of gratitude, before she disappears completely, running back to the plane obviously.

Then realization hits me. I can't carry Mr. Stalker-Man's weight, plus there's also our other remaining luggage, back at baggage claim. Great; just great. What am I to do now? I can no longer hold his weight and literally plop him in a nearby chair, rolling my shoulders a couple of times after doing so. There. That's better. Now I just have to figure out what to do.

He's mumbling to himself, or to me, about what, I don't know. I can't believe he can still be this sick; I mean, we just landed about fifteen minutes ago, he should be fine now. Maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part. Feeling a little jet-lagged myself, I rub at my temples as I close my eyes, feeling a headache coming on, sitting down in the chair opposite of Mr. Tibbles. I feel his eyes on me, but he's still mumbling nonsense.

Sighing, I open my eyes, only to see Mr. Tibbles sleeping away, completely oblivious to his surroundings and that of our current predicament. Shaking my head, I spot a nearby abandoned luggage cart. An idea. Yes, finally! I jump up in my excitement, which is something I don't often do, but I can't help it this time.

I run to it. When I get there, I see that it's empty, completely empty, and just the size of Mr. Stalker-Man himself, so that's a plus! Yes. Perfect. It's perfect. I push it back to said man, whom I finally, after a few false starts, get him on the thing. He's laying on his back, one of his arms swings back and forth at his side as I push along through the crowd of people. Everyone's giving us, but mainly me, weird looks. But I can care less, I just continue on smiling. This is so much easier than having to walk him to baggage claim myself.

Fortunately, it wasn't hard to find his luggage. His bags were from "Hendrix Hockey Apparel," they were littered with the company's logo. And since I already know what mine look like, I just grabbed them as they came around.

I then continue on my way, finally having exist the airport. Now what? We need transportation. But before I get a chance to panic, as if, a limo driver spots us. Well, he spots Mr. Tibbles, unconscious, being rolled on a luggage cart, along with our luggage. This confuses him, but after I tell him what happened, he nods his head in understanding and then he helps me get him into the limo. He seems like a pretty nice man. Then again, he's a limo driver, it's his job to be nice.

He introduces himself as Mr. Queen. Hm, that's a name I don't think I'll be forgetting anytime soon. A queen is a girl. Never a guy. Unless, of course, the guy is having identity issues. Of course, I tell him this, but he merely laughs, making me smile, too.

I don't have to tell him where we need to go, he already knows and takes us to the hotel, where I'll be staying for the rest of my time here, in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Actually, it looks like a pretty decent place to live if I do say so myself, if you like the cold. Glad I do. Even though I was born in Hawaii, where cold is basically nonexistent. Guess that's what happens when you're a military brat, living around the world, you get used to different climates.

"Here we are, Miss Winslow."

I cringe at the use of my last name. "The last name is so overkill. Call me Blake, just Blake," I correct him.

"But Winslow is your last name, isn't it?" I nod. "Then why don't you like to be called by your last name?"

"I just don't. That's why," I quip back lamely, yet I still cross my arms over my chest defiantly to show him that I mean business.

He studies me, but then concedes. Sighing, he says, "Well, then... Here we are, Miss Blake." He opens my door, helping me out of the limo by offering his hand, before going around the back and taking out our luggage.

Mr. Tibbles is still fast asleep when Mr. Queen opens the passenger door, but at least he's not mumbling to himself anymore. That's gotta be a good sign, right? Again, could just be wishful thinking on my part.

I'm really lucky that Mr. Queen's here to help me. I barely make it into the lobby of the hotel when he checks us into our rooms. He's soon escorting us up to our floor and to our rooms, or at least to Mr. Tibbles' room. We literally dump him on the one and only bed in the room before closing the door of his room, so that he can get some sleep.

He asks me if I'm hungry. "Are you hungry, Ms. Blake?" I nod. What? It's lunchtime, after all, and I didn't eat anything yet because we left first thing in the morning in order to beat the storm that'd soon be rolling in later tonight.

He proceeds to tell me about a great place to eat nearby the hotel. "It's called _Goldberg's Delicatessen_."

"I don't know..."

"It's got awesome sandwiches," he bribes.

My stomach grumbles loudly at the mention of food. "Okay. Sounds great. I'm in. Just give me a minute to put my bags down, and I'll meet you in the lobby?"

"See you then." He leaves, but not before directing me to my room.

I open the door after inserting my key card. It's not a big room, but big enough to hold two people, possibly three if the need calls for it. There's all of the accommodations one person needs. Except for food. Go figure. In opening the fridge, I find that it's empty. Good thing I agreed on lunch because there's absolutely nothing here that's edible.

My stomach grumbles again. "Yeah, yeah. I know. You're hungry. So am I. What do you think? I'm not gonna feed you?" I ask my stomach, patting it. Now I know I'm hungry. I only ever talk to my stomach when I'm literally starving to death.

I'm not gonna be here that long, so I just merely dump my bags on the nearest bed, without having the worry of unpacking them. I never really unpack anything, anyway, when I travel. I've learned that it's just easier that way. Then you won't have to worry about forgetting anything of vital importance.

I meet up with Mr. Queen, whose waiting in the lobby for me. He leads me back to the limo, still talking about the delicious sandwiches at _Goldberg's Delicatessen_ that await us. As if I need anymore convincing.

Let's go already, I'm starving!

* * *

><p><strong>AN **Speculations anyone? Who'd you think Blake'll meet, besides the obvious of course, at the restaurant? Of course, she'll meet Goldberg there, that's where he works. I'd love to hear your guys' opinions! I've got a few ideas in mind already, but I'd still like to hear what you all think! If I like an idea, I might just use it...so keep that in mind when you review!

Reviews are much obliged! Flames'll be burnt to a crisp. ^_^


	4. Chapter 4: Leap of Faith

**A/N **Hey, guys! Sorry for making everybody wait for a long overdue update. That wasn't my intention, I promise, but it's just hard to write when you've hit a wall. Stupid writer's block.

**Disclaimer **_The Mighty Ducks _(c) Disney. Chloe Blake Winslow (c) Takara "Taka" Matsudaira.

* * *

><p>Ducks of a Feather Flock Together<p>

Chapter Four

"Smells good," I can't help but comment, entering _Goldberg's Delicatessen._

Mr. Queen holds the door open for me, waits for me to enter the small restaurant, then follows me in. "And it tastes even better," he compliments with a chuckle.

The restaurant is definitely small, that's for sure, but comfortable and homey. There are a few tables here and there that can only hold about two, maybe three, people comfortably. The front counter isn't that high for once, so I can actually see above it this time. (Yeah; I'm short. Sue me.) The front counter has examples behind the glass; prime meats hang from the ceiling in the back of the store; a spice rack's off to the side; and there's even a picture of their son... the Mighty Ducks goalie? What the heck! What is this? Is this Mr. Stalker-Man's idea of a joke? Because I'm not laughing.

"Was this Tibbles' idea?" I ask defensively. I don't like being used. Who does? It's probably the worst feeling in the world. Right up there with being betrayed.

Mr. Queen is taken aback by my sudden change in attitude, and that of my outburst. I point to the picture that's next to the cash register of the Mighty Ducks' goalie, Goldberg. Then it dawns on him why I'm suddenly so mad.

He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. His silence speaks volumes.

I walk out, or more like stomp out, but I don't care. I hate being used. I don't honestly know what for, but that doesn't mean that it still doesn't hurt.

Mr. Queen follows me out, shouting at me to stop so that he can explain why Mr. Stalker-Man did what he did. Except I don't. I finally lose him somewhere along the way. I don't know how long I've been running, but it's my stomach that stops me. I find myself in front of station Engine "Avalanche Mountain" 61. It's just as I remember it, but it doesn't look like anyone's home. Engine 61 is nowhere to be seen. They must be on a call.

Crossing the street, I stop at the closed front door, hesitating before opening it. Slowly letting myself in. I can clearly remember the last time I was here. That was the first time Avalanche Mountain lost one of its own. I still feel guilty feeling relieved when it wasn't Patrick that got caught in the fire, but that was the captain of the time that died. That's why I haven't been here since then.

Until now.

I find myself staring at the wall, that's lined with pictures of past and present firefighters, including Patrick and Hercules. They haven't changed at all, by the looks of it, they still look the same from the last time I saw the both of them.

It seems like the captain's office is still vacant when I walk in. Looks like Patrick hasn't moved on either. It's still relatively empty of anything personal. Except I find an old picture of Patrick and that of the late captain on the desk. He was Patrick's mentor. In picking it up, I can't help but get a little teary-eyed. If I'm still having trouble coping, I can't even being to imagine how Patrick's doing. I haven't seen him in so long, though, so I don't really know.

The front door closes shut downstairs, signaling someone entering the station, relieving me of my momentary stupor. I start to panic, looking around wildly for a place to hide. Then I hear the resounding thumps of heavy boots, walking up the stairs. I don't want to be discovered. That's the last thing I need, especially right now, what with joining Team USA and playing in the Jr. Good Will Games and all. I've got too much on my plate as is. I don't need anymore drama in my life.

It's Lionel Hawkins and Tyler.

Mickey Tyler. Patrick's best friend. And Avalanche Mountain's own Probationary Firefighter.

Now I'm really panicking. I'm screwed if Tyler finds me. That boy can't keep a secret. I call him a "boy" because he's "a kid at heart," so he tells me. And he acts like one, too. Literally. Believe me. He does. He says that if he had a choice, he'd stay a kid forever. Less responsibilities, hence why he's still a probationary firefighter after three years of being on the job. He never takes anything seriously, but he does care about his job so I guess that's why he hasn't been fired.

Yet.

He looks a lot like Patrick, but has lighter hair coloring and darker blue eyes. He's not as muscular, but has that puppy-dog look about him instead that just makes you melt inside.

Then there's Lionel Hawkins.

He's sorta like the father figure around here, always making sure the crew is well taken care of and is at their best. He's also Avalanche Mountain's own personal cook, although the last time I tasted his cooking it wasn't edible in the slightest except I didn't tell him that. I wouldn't even have had called it food for that matter. But everyone's too afraid to tell him that his cooking's horrible... chickens. I'd tell him, but what's the point if I do? It'd mean more coming from one of the crew. He's a big African-American man, with a beer belly and a balding head. He has a laugh that's contagious, making everyone else around him start to laugh just for the heck of it.

It's not him I'm concerned about. It's Mick. Like I said earlier. That's his nickname. Mick. Cute, right? Well, I think it is. But he's much too old for me, and he's more like my brother than anything. We pick on each other like a brother and sister would at any rate. It's kinda our thing, you know? Picking on one another. That's how I know he'll tell Patrick if he finds out I'm here. Can't have that... now can I?

I duck behind the desk, just as they come upstairs. I can hear them talking to one another. I watch them through the window. Lionel is checking the mail before he gets fed up obviously, throwing it across the table in his frustration. But I don't think his frustration is due to this morning's mail. Yup. Very unlikely.

Lionel says, "No is no. What about no don't you get, son?"

"But what if we were to... oh, I don't know... let's say... get a call in Taylor Falls?" It's Mick. He's wanting to go to Taylor Falls. But why? For a night out on the town maybe? It is a tourist destination, after all. But Taylor Falls is where Summit Valley is located; Avalanche Mountain's sister station, but is much more popular. Why'd anyone from station Engine 61'd want to go there is beyond me. It's hard to know with that boy sometimes.

Again with the "boy."

The old man rubs at his temples after he sits down, apparently trying to get a hold on his ever-growing frustration towards the probationary firefighter. "I don't know how many times I have to say it. The answer's still—" His chair swivels a little bit, stopping him mid-sentence when he sees that the door to the vacant captain's office is ajar. He's now making his way over to said office, confusion clearly written all over his face.

My eyes widen in panic. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I knew that I had forgotten something! I forgot to close the damn door! Now they'll definitely find me! How can one simple mistake lead to such disastrous results!?

"I thought that I closed this," he says more to himself than to anyone else, but that didn't mean that Mick didn't overhear.

And feeling obliged to speak, the man says, "It's not that I don't understand the answer, it's just that... I don't understand _why_ you don't want to see her. I bet Blake would be happy to see us! Why wouldn't she? We're awesome! And I bet she misses us." He then adds as an afterthought, "I bet she misses... you too, you know."

They enter the supposedly vacant captain's office, and are now dangerously close in finding me and that of my makeshift hiding spot under the late captain's desk. They stop just before said piece of furniture, and I hold my breath as I watch their feet shift around the room as they both look the room over for anything suspicious or out of place.

_I have to get out of here, before anyone spots me! _I think frantically, looking around wildly for an escape route, but still making sure I'm well out of sight.

In moving further back underneath the desk, afraid of being discovered, when Lionel comes closer, I hold my breath in anticipation. The pounding of my heart in my ears is deafening. Hands over my mouth. Scared to death. He's so close now...

"Look here, kid," Lionel says, turning around and facing Mick, grasping his shoulders and holding him at arm's length. "I know you miss her. I do, too. Believe me. I really do."

Mick groans. "I hear a but coming."

"But... I think it's best for everyone, especially for her, if we don't push our luck. I know. I can't believe she's here myself. But let's not push it, okay? The last thing we want to do is to upset her if she sees us when she doesn't want to. And anyway, she needs to focus on hockey right now. She is playing in the Jr. Goodwill Games, after all. We don't want her to lose her focus now, do we?"

Good ol' Lionel. He always knows what to say.

Hopefully Mick will listen, but I highly doubt it. He never listens. That's another reason why he's still a probationary firefighter. He can't take orders. Always putting himself, and the others, at risk because of it.

Mick hesitates, trying to make up an excuse to go see me at Taylor Falls, but comes up short and sighs in defeat instead. "You're right. When you're right, you're right. And I sure as hell don't want her to lose her focus!"

"Atta boy!" Lionel suddenly exclaims, his voice bouncing off the walls of the mostly vacant office. I jump, accidentally of course, but I still hit my head on the desk. I rub my head, biting my tongue as I try to keep myself from screaming at the sudden pain.

_Ouch! That hurt! _I can't help but think._ No duh, Sherlock!_

He slaps Mick on the back, the poor boy loses his footing and stumbles, but doesn't fall. And instead continues as if nothing happened. "I mean, have you seen those Iceland Vikings play? It's like they're _actual vikings_ and have no respect for their opponents at all, let alone the game itself! Team USA will definitely have to up their game if they want to win against them."

I listen like a bat, their voices carrying downstairs, signaling that's it time to make a swift exist. Luckily every captain's office has a fire escape of its own. In opening the window, I quickly climb down the rickety old ladder that leads down to the side of the building and onto the side street, but about halfway down the ladder broke. The bottom half lying on the ground.

I don't know what I was thinking in coming here. Not that I had intended on coming here in the first place, it just sort of happened.

"Did you hear that?"

Lionel. Great. He must've of heard the ladder creak. I panic. In my haste, I look down at how high I still am off the ground. Not that high, but just high enough to where, if I jumped, I'd probably break something or another. And that's out of the question. Because then I couldn't play the game I love. Or for Team USA for that matter.

But what choice do I have? It's either jump, or get caught and have to explain myself. Yeah. That's so not happening.

I hear him approaching the office. It's now or never I guess. I prefer never, but we can't always have our way, right? I turn around, mindful of where I step. One wrong move and it would all be over, one way or another. Taking hold of the ladder in a vice grip, my knuckles turn white but I pay no mind to my hands, as I steel myself by looking down one last time before closing my eyes in a desperate attempt to mentally prepare herself for what it is I'm about to do.

"It's not that far down. No," I chat myself up, obviously stalling for time. "No, no, no. Not that far down at all. I can do this. I _have_ to do this." I take a deep breath. "Enough stalling, Blake. You can do this. You've faced tougher obstacles than this. This... is nothing. Nothing at all. On the count of three. One... Two... C'mon, Blake, c'mon! You can do this!" Another deep breath. "THREE!"

I let go of the ladder, jumping down to what I hope is not my death.

* * *

><p><strong>AN **I know where I want this story to go, it's just hard getting there, especially with writer's block... Ugh! Anyway... Do you guys think it's a coincidence that there just so happens to be a street named "Hendrix" here? I couldn't help but laugh when I saw it, it made me think of this story... maybe that was the jumpstart that I needed. Hmmm...

Reviews are much obliged! Flames'll be burnt to a crisp. ^_^


End file.
